


left-hand florilegium

by tascheter



Series: consequentia rerum [1]
Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, EXTREMELY not wizards-compliant, F/M, Gen, M/M, a shit ton of changeling worldbuilding, background (?) conlang, canon-typical attitudes re: changelings, extremely self-indulgent strickler biofic, historical-domain boyfriends, intermittent body horror, intermittent whump, more detailed warnings in chapter notes, nomina sunt consequentia rerum BAY BEE, not quite an au but so far from canon it might as well be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter
Summary: No matter what side of the sky you're on, everyone agrees: his home is a desert, a dark, barren wasteland.But even a desert sometimes brings forth flowers.
Relationships: Walter Strickler | Stricklander & Original Characters, Walter Strickler | Stricklander/OFC (unrequited), Walter Strickler | Stricklander/OMC, Walter Strickler | Stricklander/Original Character(s)
Series: consequentia rerum [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858699
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	left-hand florilegium

**Author's Note:**

> this is basically an extended headcanon post that went rogue and attained sentience. please: do not have expectations.
> 
> it was however also partly inspired (at least in spirit) by @babblish's series of incredible character fics, [the heart of janus](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1470869). seriously, they've got love in every stitch; go check 'em out!
> 
>  **this story will have neither a happy ending nor a consistent update schedule**. (though it does have...an ending. and not everything is awful! and at least at the time of writing this i consider it 'canon' to _when i fall asleep it is your eyes that close_ , which does end happily. or...will.) but: it's about change, and the past (the most foreign country), and _names_ , and flowers that also hold poison. i do not control the projection; i merely have a keyboard, and internet access, and god's earnest desire to make that everyone else's problem. :')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a cool, clear evening in May, in the twelfth year of the reign of William, called _Conqueror_ , the monk Aethelred observes an occultation of Venus behind the waxing crescent of a setting moon. 
> 
> But—ah. We're getting ahead of ourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brief violence (indirectly perceived) · drowning · allusions to: medical horror, kidnapping, a young child generally just having a terrible horrible no good very bad time

As far back as he can remember it, his life here has always been simple. Do as you're told; take your medicine; don't wander out. Easy. Impossibly easy. That's what the yellow-red troll is always saying, especially to him. And—he doesn't want to make trouble, is the thing. So that's what he's always tried to do.

But all that's changed, now. _Everything_ has changed. So now: he just runs, as fast as he can.

He doesn't know how long he's been running like this. Long enough for him to fall, more than once. The short little tunic he wears, ragged and too close and too _tight_ over his back, over his—it makes his breath shallow and cramped, is the point; the burning in his feet means getting back up's an agony, every time.

But he knows, more than anything, that he doesn't want to get caught.

Just as much as he _knows_ that if they catch him—

"Hurry up!" A voice as proud as cracking granite, a voice he's heard before, echoes like thunder through the dark of the cave. "The little thing went this way. He can't have gotten far—"

The words send a spike of panic shooting through him, and he bolts, scrambling down the hallway. A long fissure along the ceiling lets in a sliver of thin, green light, just enough to see by, but it doesn't make running any easier. He's exhausted, and terrified, and the old abandoned cave complex twists and turns through the cliffside like the track of one of the great, terrible worms. It's not long before he takes a turn too hard, and goes sprawling into the opposite wall; his claws scrabble against the stone as he tries to right himself, and it feels like the loudest noise in the world, but he pulls himself up as quick as he can, even through the dull, droning pain in his joints and stone.

He's not the only one who's ever run, he knows. He's been warned about not doing it often enough. The impulse had come on him so suddenly, so direct and overwhelming he couldn't think to resist it; he's never done something so stupid, before.

But he knows he doesn't know what happened to the others. That nobody knows—or at least, that nobody will talk about it.

So he knows, too: he can't let them catch him.

* * *

Of course it doesn't take long for the inevitable to happen. It's a bad tumble this time, his ankle rolling at an awful, twisted angle, and his eyes are hot with tears when he realizes: this is it. This is _it_. He's going to find out what happens when you run, and it's going to be that you _die_ , because the voices behind him are getting closer and closer and he knows he's heard the one of them before, and he _knows_ what its owner can do to the ones like him—

He pulls himself up through sheer force of desperation. The action claws a pathetic little whimper from his throat, but he pushes through it; his ankle feels like fire, and the cave walls are starting to close in on him, and he can't tell any more if it's from the medicine or the panic, but if he's going to be caught he knows he doesn't want it to be by that voice.

Scrambling down the hall is slow going, like this. Putting his full weight on his ankle isn't an option, any longer, and he's tired and panicked as it is. He manages to make it a little further by holding one hand to the wall as he limps, but the karst surface of this stretch of the cave is still only natural, still jagged and rough, the texture of thousands of stone knives all packed side to side. The second he puts his weight on it, too hard, too quick, at just the wrong angle, the cool, sharp stone slices open his palm.

It hurts, of course. He cries a little, of _course_ , because he's pathetic, and tired and scared, and everything is happening to him _all_ at once. But the sight of the blood is worse. It's—he's always known that's what's inside him, it's not that, but—

In the dim light of the cave: the rich, warm smear of purple beckons like a beacon.

He shakes his head. There's no time to try and clean it off the stone, let alone bandage his hand—even if he could spare much from his little tunic, regardless—so he simply turns his wrist towards himself, and uses the back of his hand to balance, instead. It's awkward, and it hurts, and probably he's never felt quite so betrayed by his body, before; but at least this way the blood will run down his arm instead of dropping to the floor like a trail of breadcrumbs.

He hobbles as fast as he can down the tunnel, pushing and pushing himself for even the smallest progress. Even as he does, he can tell he's flagging. Part of him, tired and desperate, wonders: why not just give up? Sure, he'd end up caught; but, he knows, he's only small. Maybe they'd take pity on him. Maybe they'd make it quick.

Something settles, cold and heavy, in his gut. He knows the voice behind him. So he knows, too: it wouldn't be quick.

The tired, desparate part of him protests. He can't keep this up for much longer; he doesn't know where he is. Or, for that matter, where exactly he's going. The more he exerts himself, the more he trips, the more he stumbles. He can't afford to keep going like this. But at the same time: he can't stop. He _can't_. He knows that voice, and what it can do. But if he can't keep going, and he can't run, what's he supposed to do? The voices are getting closer with every moment he delays. He's about to start crying again when—

_Look! Over there._

The thought takes him by surprise. It's so quick, so sudden; almost like someone was speaking to him. The sound of it is something subtle and strange, not even enough to really be called _sound_ , really, but—just a feeling, almost, clean and sweet as sometimes the breeze through a fetch.

He's not sure even where it comes from, though it's definitely coming from somewhere. He looks around, half-frantic, trying to find the source of the sensation. And then—

His eyes alight on a little crevice, in the cave wall. Hidden just on the edge of sight, disguised by the pockmarked, water-channeled rock.

He swallows. Something about this feels—off, somehow. Too easy, too obvious. More importantly: there's no way it's going to work. The yellow-red troll is always saying he's small, that he's made to be overlooked, but he doesn't—he's not _good_ , at hiding, he only knows what he's learned on his own trying to get Eight and Fourteen to leave him _alone_. Even then, more often than not, all he manages to do is postpone the inevitable.

Then, from behind him—

"Look! Over there. See? There, just past that vein of basalt."

Somewhere in his chest, his heart trips. He _knows_ that voice.

So, without thinking: he darts over to the wall and shoves himself in, as fast as he can.

His first immediate thought is that he's made a mistake. The cave wall outside is so smooth ( _there's no way they won't see him_ ), and the space inside is so close and tight ( _there's no way he's going to fit_ ). But the voices are so close behind him, now, close enough he can almost feel their breath, hot and stinking, down the back of his neck, and he's not _thinking_ , any more— 

"What did I tell you, Slither?" The voice is still just as proud and cruel as he remembers it, and he presses himself into the stone at the sound, as far as he can. "Blood's still fresh here, too. You can still see the track, clear as moonlight."

A chill slides down his back, wet and awful as cold water. He shoves himself further into the crevice, and pulls his hand tight to his chest.

"He can't have made it far," a second voice answers. _Slither_ , evidently— _Slidráz_ , a soft, susurrant name—has got a soft accent, one he's come to associate mostly with superiors and unrefusable requests. But if he's ever heard their voice before, he doesn't recognize it; the name doesn't suggest anything aside from being older than him. "I can still practically smell him—"

A snort. "Like it's hard?"

"It is when the whole place stinks of azoth."

Inside the wall, he freezes. But outside, Slither just keeps moving, light hollow steps _taptaptapping_ over the stone floor.

"Shit." They sound almost bored, though the affectation doesn't quite mask the underlying irritation in their voice. "Look at this. Bleeding all over the place. At this rate, we're going to have to search this whole wing of the cave system."

" _We're_ going to have to do no such fucking thing—"

"Kodanth wants us to find him, Oughan. So yes, _we_ are."

Somewhere out in the hall, the other troll's hammer-fall footsteps come to a short, impatient halt.

"Answer me something, Slither."

The only immediate response from Slither is a soft frustrated noise, just at the edge of hearing. Oughan either doesn't notice or—more likely, he thinks—doesn't care.

"The thing I don't understand is...look. You, I get. Like for like...whatever." The distaste in Oughan's voice is badly-concealed, though not for the moment actively hostile. "But I'm not _like_. Why waste me here?"

"Because Kodanth assigned us to find Seventeen," Slither says, tiredly. "Come on, Oughan, this isn't complicated. Even for you."

"It's not like he's the only one Kodanth's got," the other troll presses. "The latest batch is—what, a whole twenty-six of 'em made it, this time? I don't see what's so special about this one—"

"Lady's _tits_." Slither clicks their teeth in frustration. "Just how long, again, have you been on Pit duty?"

Oughan snorts again. "Too fuckin' long."

"At least five years, now. And ever since your little mishap—"

" _Watch_ it."

"Ever since your little _mishap_ ," Slither repeats, "you've had to learn to live down here with the rest of us. Which means: when Kodanth tells you to jump, the only question you get to have is 'how high.'" Then, under their breath: " _I mean, I've always known trolls are fucking dumb, but_ —"

Up until this point, the two trolls chasing after him have only been speaking in troll-language. Which—he knows, obviously. He doesn't dare speak it, not to any of the trolls he's ever seen, but they sometimes speak to him, so of course he has to know it. But when Slither slips into something else—something the boy has only ever spoken with his agemates and the older children, with the others _like him_ —

The realization hits like lightning. If Slither speaks his language, does it mean—does it mean that Slither is like _him_?

An awful, irresistible curiosity overtakes him. He opens his eyes, and leans forward, just a bit.

"I serve Kodanth at _Gunmar's_ command," Oughan snaps. The big troll is leaning against the other side of the corridor, almost out of his line of sight, but still just visible enough the boy can see his huge crossed arms. "It's already demeaning enough I have to report to that red bastard. Even worse that he's the only thing between me and getting my post back. It doesn't mean I have to agree with him."

"If you report to him, you've been here long enough to know each new cohort is an investment. You think regular babysitting's bad?" Slither scoffs, cold and brittle. "Try months of it. Do you know how many we start out with?"

Something in Slither's voice hitches, then, just barely enough to notice. He knows why, he thinks. Even if he doesn't want to think about it. But they only falter for a second.

"The point is," they grit out, "Seventeen has promise. And Kodanth is obsessed with him. Even you should be able to see that."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"It _means_ he was supposed to be taken to the Mirror an hour ago." Slither gives a soft huff. "And like I said: I'm not the one who let a half-baked baby changeling slip past me."

Oughan gives a low, irritated growl. "It's not my fault the little bastard's so quick."

"Maybe not," Slither snaps, more and more venom creeping into their voice, "but so far? You've been less than useless. And if you've gone and lost Kodanth's pet project—"

"I didn't _lose_ anything!"

"Care to explain what you were doing with Iškaz, then? Because he looked like he could tell a _very_ different story—"

"You _dare_ , impure—"

Slither hisses a warning, clear and sharp. "Try it, big boy. I'll feed you to Gunmar myself!"

Something slams into the cave wall, impact heavy and hard enough he can feel pebbles falling down onto his back. _Someone_ snarls, raw and vicious; he bites his tongue, and doesn't dare make a sound.

What follows can't last very long, though it feels like it does. He's old enough to recognize a fight, even just by sound: snarls and scuffling and the low, rasping song of metal, drawn against stone. He's seen fights like this before—between his agemates, between trolls, even, once, from just behind the grates around the floor of the arena—enough to know that they make time run funny. He almost wonders if he should make a run for it, while Slither and Oughan are distracted, but—

 _Keep still,_ something tells him, as his heart races in his chest. _Keep still. Keep quiet._ He tries, again, to slow his breath, though at this point he's too frightened to tell if it's really working. _If you're quiet, they won't find you. If they don't find you, you live. And as long as you stay alive—_

" _Enough!_ "

In the weird, eerie gloom of the cave, Oughan's voice rings out like a bell. The sound is so loud and sudden, he can't help the little whimper he makes, even hidden as he is inside the cave wall.

"I—Slither. _Look_." Oughan's breathing has gone heavy and hard, but his tone is strangely even. "Any time we spend fighting is time we waste looking for the kid. I don't want to spend any more time on this than you do. So just—let's not."

There's a long, tense silence, punctuated only by the sound of Slither's soft, gasping breaths. Then:

"You know, Oughan." In the dull quiet lingering after the words, he can hear Slither spit. It's a weird, mixed-up sound: half-soft, like blood, and half-hard, something small and wet hitting stone. "That might be the smartest thing I think I've ever heard you say."

" _Watch_ it," the troll growls again. But there's a hesitation in his voice, a kind of unsteadiness that wasn't there before.

After what feels like an age, Slither pulls themself up with another _taptaptap_ flurry of footsteps. "We should get moving," they say, breath still ragged and raw. "The trail leads this far. But since he's not here—"

"I've been _telling_ you, Slither."

Slither swears under their breath—in _their_ language, again, something that feels more wondrous and intriguing every time he thinks on it—but it rings strange and faint over the stark, flat sound of their claws against the stone. And, in any event: for the first time since they've gotten close enough to hear, they don't say anything back.

For a moment, the boy almost dares to hope he might actually escape their notice. But then—

"Wait." Oughan sounds abruptly interested, which he knows, from experience, never bodes well. "What about—do you see that? Just over there."

He bites his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. The taste is bitter and metallic, familiar and strange all at once; it's so overwhelming, so sudden, he hardly registers the sound of their footsteps heading towards him.

Part of him thinks: he should move, pull himself further in. Another part argues he should make one last, stupid run for it.

But he can't move. If he does, they'll see him, even in the dark of the cave; even _he_ isn't that easy to overlook. If he runs for it, they'll see him. And if they see him, he dies. This is it. This is _it_ —

Unless...unless it isn't.

He knows he's not the only child like him, down in the Pit. _Twenty-six_ of them made it, this time. The different cohorts are kept mostly to themselves, for training or conditioning or whatever other purpose, he's not sure why. But sometimes, they aren't. Sometimes, they meet. And when they do, there's always an exchange: of messages, of secrets, of blows or stories or advice.

And he's heard the others talk. About—lots of things. About the surface, about the medicine they take. About being chosen. But mostly: he's heard them talk about _Her_. He's not sure what She does, or even if She'd listen to a little thing like him.

As the footsteps come closer and closer, though—he's not sure what, exactly, he has to lose.

"Please," he breathes, quiet as he can, pushing himself into the wall as far as he will go. The word is small, and scared, and he has no other; but it's his, and offered with his whole heart. "My Lady— _please_."

Just outside the wall, the footsteps still. Some part of him, detached and distant, thinks: he's so panicked, even from this close, he can't tell whose they are.

After a long, tense moment, Slither speaks again.

"Look, Oughan...we're wasting our time." They sound almost conciliatory, which feels—odd, given everything else he's overheard so far. "You had the right of it, before. He's not here. And if he's not here—"

"You said it yourself," Oughan snaps. "We tracked him this far. The blood trail ends here—where else could he have gone?"

"He's not _in_ there, you idiot." Slither's words are impatient, but for the first time, he realizes how tired their voice actually is. "Look—even a scrawny little thing like him wouldn't fit in there."

Slither sticks an arm in, to demonstrate. He pulls himself as far back as he can, and doesn't dare breathe; he _swears_ he feels their claws actually brush the fabric of his tunic.

"We saw him come down here, Slither." Oughan sounds unconvinced, though perhaps not as confident now as he was before their fight. "What happened to _Kodanth_ and the _assignment_? I'm not going to search twenty more miles of unfinished fucking cave just because you couldn't be assed to—"

"I'm _done_ here, Oughan. Stay or don't. I'm not explaining your absence to _Kodanth_ when I report to him at the Mirror, alone."

For the first time, Oughan hesitates.

"Kodanth has been topside for days," the troll rumbles, almost petulant. "He won't be there, if you go. I—I would have heard if he'd come back."

Slither scoffs. "Shows how much you know about the Mirror, then."

Oughan snarls again. But the sound is almost uncertain, and Slither's footsteps are growing steadily fainter. After another frustrated growl, the troll slams his fist into the wall a second time, and follows after them. The last thing the boy hears of the pair is the sound of their bickering voices fading into the gloom.

* * *

He's not sure how much time passes after that. He doesn't dare move, not for a long while—he's still terrified that Slither and Oughan will double back and find him for real, still aching and tired and scared—but after their voices dim, and their footsteps fade, he realizes: they really are gone. At least for now.

And if they're gone, he knows: he's got to keep moving.

He pulls himself out of the crevice as gingerly as he can. The sudden press of his weight elicits a vigorous protest from his ankle, but he manages to keep himself from anything louder than a short, soft hiss. His hand is another matter. In the faint light peeking through the roof of the cave, he can see he really has made a mess of himself: nearly his entire forearm, palm to elbow, is covered in sickly, sticky, purple-black blood. His palm throbs faintly, which he thinks vaguely should be worrying. But—at least it isn't actively bleeding, any more. If he keeps the cut turned towards himself, and his hand tucked close against his chest, he shouldn't even have to worry about leaving a trail.

He leans against the cave wall just for a moment, just to catch his breath. As he does, it occurs to him: he's not exactly sure what he's supposed to do now. He has no idea how long he's been running. Or to where. He knows—or at least, he's pretty sure—he's still in the Pit, mostly because the Pit is the only world he's ever known. Anything more specific than that is elusive.

But he doesn't want to stay here. He can't. He knows that much.

He knows he wasn't born here. He knows that he was taken, from somewhere. (From someone.) But he can't remember from where, or from whom. Or much of anything else. His earliest memory, patchy and disjointed as it is, is of the trials—somewhere under the scrutiny of piercing, fire-light eyes.

 _It doesn't matter how far you run_ , the yellow-red troll had told them, then. _There's only one way to the other side of the sky_.

He shakes his head. He's not trying to cross the sky, not yet. Everything he's heard about the Otherworld makes it seem even worse than this one, and—he might've run, sure. But he's not about to go rushing towards _worse_.

In the quiet gloom of the cave, though, part of him wonders. What if—what if it's actually a good thing, that he'd run? The thought sends a shock of something faintly guilty coursing through him, and he scrambles to clarify, even if only to himself. He knows he wasn't supposed to; it isn't that. But—he'd never met Slither, before, but he's definitely met Oughan. And another part of him—a soft, hungry part—wonders if the yellow-red troll might be almost proud, of how he'd escaped their notice.

It's a vain thought, he knows. He's still not exactly sure how he'd found the little crevice, and he's _definitely_ not sure how Slither hadn't managed to touch him. And he knows—he looks angrily down to his feet, cheeks burning, for some reason, with something like shame—he _knows_ , too, that he'd never be able to meet Slither or Oughan in a fair fight. This shouldn't exactly feel like a victory.

But still. Surely such an escape must count for something. Right?

 _Does it matter?_ The question comes to mind so quick, so sudden, he almost startles. He's never thought something so viciously, before, but somehow this time the almost-anger of it feels good. It feels _right. The Lady favors the bold. So better to run, and be small, and cunning—so long as it keeps you alive._

He bites his lip, considering. The thought feels so grown up, which is strange; he doesn't know how old he is, not exactly, but he knows he's only young.

Then again: maybe he's earned a grown-up thought, after escaping Slither and Oughan.

More importantly, though: the thought feels familiar.

 _No such thing as honor_ , the yellow-red troll had told them. And tells them. Had told him, personally, just the day before. _And everything and everyone is a tool to get what you want._

It's another grown-up thought. But part of him thinks—maybe he's earned it, now.

He stands up a little straighter. Part of it is to try and relieve some of the pressure of the wall against his back, though also, partly, so he can take a deep, shuddering breath, as deep as the wraps over his back and shoulders will allow. It's short, and unsatisfying, even before accounting for the stitch in his side that still isn't going away and the swelling in his ankle and the dull, pounding ache building behind his eyes.

But. Well.

He knows what he wants. (To keep running. To stay _alive_.) And—he _has_ a tool, he thinks. It might be small, and hurting, and scared—but his body is _his_. If he's careful—if he's cunning, if he's _worthy_ —surely it won't betray him again. 

So, without a further thought: he turns in the direction he'd run from, and heads limping into the gloom.

* * *

Things start to go more smoothly, after that. He's still aching, and tired, but—the pain in his ankle has dulled to something almost bearable, somehow, and if he doesn't run flat-out, it takes longer for his legs to hurt bad enough he has to stop. It's a little slower, like this, because of course it is. But that's the key, part of him thinks. A little patience now, a little thought for balancing loss and advantage, and a better payoff in the end.

He's still not exactly sure where he's going. The cave winds and twists through the rock of the cliffs like a wild thing, and though he recognizes some landmarks from the first time he'd passed through, even with his ankle, it doesn't take long for him to reach entirely new territory. Sometimes, in places where the rock is worn away or broken out, half-worked and forgotten, he catches glimpses of what lays outside: lava-deep salt gorges, the graveyards of the great worms, even, once, what he thinks might be the _Throne_.

Each time, the pale green sun seems to be in the exact same place as last he saw it. This feels wrong, somehow, but for reasons he can't quite explain; like something seen in a dream and then promptly forgotten.

When he notices it, he gives only a quick, sharp shake of his head. He can't think about it, right now, because if he thinks about it, this headache is only going to get worse. And if it gets worse, he's going to slow down. And if he slows down—well.

He knows what he wants. And to get it—he can't slow down. Not now.

The thought keeps him in relatively good spirits despite the aches and the exhaustion, and he keeps up this pace for a good while. He knows he must be climbing, because the burn in his legs has shifted rather than gotten any better; but the Pit is, well, a pit. If he's climbing, he's going away from it, so he doesn't exactly mind. In the more obviously excavated passages, under the occasional roof-lattices and eyelights and eerie green light piercing through ceiling fontanelles, there are sometimes stairs, but he's wary of moving so openly through such places, so open and exposed. Old barracks and abandoned supply depots, shadows and chimneys and low, blind crawlspaces: he ghosts through them all like a thief in the dark. Never once does he see another soul.

Eventually, the tunnel starts to dwindle. It pulls closer and closer into itself for a long while, before finally pinching off in a blind, narrow dead end. Except it isn't, not exactly; just beyond a fissure in the wall, through a space just barely bigger than himself, he can hear the sound of the water he'd been following, clear as anything.

And, more importantly: just on the other side, he can make out a faint green light.

He swallows. The light is thin and bloodless, utterly enchanting, but—there's somewhere he has to be, is the thing. He's never felt more certain of anything, not even when he'd run.

After the crevice from earlier, squeezing through the crack hardly takes a thought.

When he emerges, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust. The light is weaker than it'd looked earlier—filtering down from high above through a single, distant oculus—but it's enough; just enough, in fact, for him to realize he's standing at the edge of an enormous, underground lake, still and black and smooth as glass.

He casts a quick, wary look around the space before pressing further towards the edge of the water. He's never seen this much of it at once, before. This close to the edge, he's suddenly, almost painfully aware of how thirsty he is; but he hesitates. This close, the water would be almost intriguing if it weren't terrifying. Despite the sound of movement, the surface before him is so flat and calm; the sight recalls _the sea_ , a word he's only heard, whose meaning he's never learned.

He bites his lip. He knows he can't swim. _Especially_ given his—his condition. The Lady might favor the bold, but even he knows there's a thin line separating _bold_ from _foolish_. If he's going to cross—he swallows hard, at the thought, because as glad as he is he's made it this far he knows he can't stop, not here, not now—he's going to have to be cunning.

The faint green light of the oculus is technically enough to see by, though only barely. He knows his eyes are good—because the yellow-red troll _tells_ him, even if he secretly pretends not to care as much as he does when it happens—but it still takes longer than it should, he thinks, for him to get a good sense of his surroundings. The stone beneath his feet is flat and ripple-smooth, level and glossy as the water before him, and in the gloom he's not quite sure where one ends and the other begins.

He takes a few tentative steps towards the water's edge. The cave around him is so dark, though, and the boundary between solid ground and cold, wet lake so blurred, so indistinct, he ends up accidentally stepping one foot into the water. The feeling is— _bad_ , slimy and _awful_ ; he yelps, without thinking, but the sound echoes noisily around the chamber, and the clamor of the echo takes him by surprise. His foot slips against the wetness of the rock, and he throws his arms out on instinct to try to right himself, but the motion pulls weirdly against the cloth of the tunic—it's too _tight_ , he'd _said_ so, too close and too _tight_ even if it's never been anything but lumpy and formless—and he loses his balance; he falls right to the cave floor, the impact of his horns against stone reverberating so hard he sees stars.

This brings a second rush of tears to his eyes, stinging and awful. He wrenches himself upright again, careless of the protest of his hand and ankle. He's so tired, so frustrated; he's never felt so pathetic, before. At this rate, he's never going to figure out how to cross the lake. He's going to be trapped here until he dies, which means he's run for _nothing_ , so how is that _any_ better than what awaited him with Slither and Oughan—

Then, somewhere, in the depths of the cave behind him—a breeze rises. Fresh and cool, just light against his back.

_Look there, little lamb._

He freezes. It's the same voice he'd heard earlier, pointing out the crevice in the cave wall, so—he almost trusts it. He doesn't hesitate to do as it says. But when his eyes follow the sound of it, up and out and across the water—

There's a light there, now. Just across the surface of the lake, the same place just moments ago he could've sworn there was nothing but flat, empty darkness. It flickers mutely, like the flame of a faraway candle. But its reflection spills over the water, still and unmoving as it is, like the illusion of a bridge; so solid and substantial, it looks almost real.

 _A bridge of green light_ , he thinks, faintly. _Like a dream. Like magic._

He knows who he's been talking to, now, he realizes. The thought makes him feel something—immense, without name.

Magic or not, a bridge only invites one thing. But—he falters at the thought. He can't; he _can't_. If he falls, if he—if the voice is truly who he thinks, surely She knows. But if _She_ 's the one offering this—a boon given unasked, given with _magic_ —how can he doubt Her? How can he _deny_ Her? Let alone after earlier. The voice rings in his mind like water, like thunder, like a bell; but the words were so _warm_. Like something he knows he's forgotten, something he wants to remember. He's never heard anyone talk like that, here.

_Don't be afraid, now. You've come so far._

He bites his lip. He knows the Lady has many names—the _Cunning,_ the _Enchantress_ , _Apple-giver_ , _Sea-born_ —where he doesn't have even one. Not yet. But he thinks—he's never heard Her called _Deceiver_.

He lays a foot, tentative, onto the surface of the water. He's breathing awfully hard, part of him realizes.

He leans his full weight into the step.

_It's almost over._

And then, he falls, swallowed up by the depthless black pool.

He only manages to keep his head above water for a few moments. With every breath he manages to snatch, he can feel himself getting weaker and weaker. He's going to _sink_ , he realizes; he's made of _stone_ , he doesn't know how to swim. Slipping beneath the surface feels almost like a relief. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath fleeing, muffled under the cold, black blanket of water pressing against him.

The first breath of water comes almost as a surprise. It's unpleasant, bitter, burning like the dose of quicksilver they're given every morning; the feeling of water rushing into his lungs makes him panic all over again. This time, he barely has the energy to struggle. What's the _point_? He'd spent all of his energy before making it to the pool. Perhaps someone else might have made it—someone more clever, or stronger, or more _useful_. Maybe the voice was wrong, when it picked him. The voice and the yellow-red troll and everybody, _everybody_.

A cold sort of awareness starts to come over him. He's going to die here, he realizes. He's going to die here, in this place that he only knows _isn't_ his home; this place he was taken, he knows not from where or from whom. He's going to die—he's going to _drown_ —and not even Slither or Oughan will ever find him. This is what happens, he thinks. This is what happens to the ones who run, and he's going to deserve it, because they told him—they _warned_ him, and he didn't _listen_ —

At least it's not dark any more. The water around him has become suffused with pale green light—he's not sure when, or how—but he knows it's the same light he saw across the water, the same light of the only sun he's ever known, big and bright and near enough to blind. With his last clear thought, he wonders: is this better or worse than drowning in the dark?

It's only when he hears the crying that he realizes: he's not alone.

He must be delirious. He knows, now, that he's drowning—but drowning doesn't mean you start seeing things. And he's _definitely_ seeing things. But—a _fleshbag_ baby?

He's not sure how he knows what it is. He's only ever heard of humans, but there it is, floating above him in the water, just out of reach; pink and small and _hideously_ loud. There's nothing else it can be. How did it get here? Is he supposed to believe _this_ is what Death looks like—a human _child_?

He'd have to laugh, if he wasn't drowning to death. The stories he's heard—sure, he knows what they sound like, and, _sure_ , he knows it can't be that much younger than him. But—this can't be the thing everyone says is so wicked. It _can't_. He knows they're weird, and soft, and fragile as dying, and—sure, even that they do horrible things to trolls. But this one's only a baby. It's only a _baby_. It's never done anything to him, and—he _can't_ hate them. Not like they want him to. Not even drowning, here, in the depths of some miserable cave.

But somehow, as he sinks; as he knows he's sinking, as he _knows_ he's dying—

_—there's no such thing as honor—_

—as he looks up to it, as his vision swims, something in him, something small and scared—

— _and anything and_ anyone _is a tool to get what you want—_

In desperation, he reaches blindly for the image, too real and too weird. His claws hit something too-soft and yielding, and he pulls it towards himself—on instinct, on reflex. Then: he breathes in again, and the world goes white.

* * *

He returns to consciousness with a broken, keening gasp.

The first sensation he's coherent enough to put a name to is _pain_ , which at least is familiar. It's bright, somehow. He's lying on his side, as far as he can tell, cheek pressed against smooth, solid rock. _Everything_ hurts. For a moment, all he can do is lay there, breathing _in and out, in and out_ , just like they'd trained him. Every one of his nerves feels angry and raw, and—he still can't get over the thought that it's _bright_ , now; it seems fundamentally wrong, somehow, wrong in a way that feels visceral and immediate, but equally inscrutable.

The last thing he remembers, he'd been in a cave. A cave of black stone and black water and the only light a faint, distant sun.

This light feels much nearer, and—he can tell, even through closed eyelids—it's _definitely_ brighter. When he tries to open his eyes, it surges keen and bright right through to the back of his skull, and he immediately buries his face in his arm. The cool, solid press of the stone against his forehead is almost a balm—or would be, if the touch didn't burn so.

He doesn't know how long he lies there. He can hear things, in the distance—the whispering burble of running water, low, distant calls of wildlife and worse, even, he thinks, what might sound like voices—but only in a vague, detached sort of way; making them out takes too much energy, energy he doesn't currently have. 

"—and you're sure this is the place?"

"Absolutely. He was heading this way when we lost track of him. That is—I know it sounds hard to believe, sir, but the vision was clear."

"I don't question the vision. Or at least what you saw of it." An unfamiliar voice—a soft, rasping drawl, one he can only barely make out, even just to ignore it. "But a single changeling...not even that, yet. A single _child_ —"

"I know, sir. But—wait." 

"What's that?"

"Look—just over there!"

Somewhere, dimly, under the agony, he thinks: he knows that voice. The words are deferent, but the voice is familiar, punctuated by a low, susurrant staccato of careful feet over ripple-smooth stone.

As he lies there, prone and aching, some part of him realizes: this is it. He knows that voice—knows it like he knows the inside of that little crevasse—which can mean only one thing. They've found him, in the end. And if they've found him—

Well. He gave a good effort. He had—the best he could. But it's over, now.

_Not yet, little one. There's somewhere for you to be._

The voice! He'd almost forgotten. But—wait, what?

_Don't forget, now._

Then the voice leaves him. The feeling of _loss_ cuts so sudden, so deep, he doesn't think of the pain in his arms and legs and everything else; he pulls himself up to chase it. Or at least, he tries to. The closest he can manage—with this stupid, useless, _aching_ body, he thinks, tears rushing hot and unbidden to his eyes—is a pathetic little half-slouch, propping himself up only barely from the stone floor.

But when a hand comes to rest on his shoulder, even in the light, he can't help but jump again.

"Seventeen?"

He whips around at the sound of the voice, even as much as doing so hurts. He squints up at the speaker, for a moment, before—it's _Slither_ , he realizes blearily. He remembers, even from just the brief glimpses he'd gotten while hiding. But they look—taller, than they did before. And _blurrier._ The colors he's seeing are all wrong, flat and pale and dull as tuff.

(Part of him wonders, distantly, where Oughan is. Part of him doesn't _dare_ , not even in his own mind.)

Slither must be able to tell something is wrong. They crouch down, to match his eye level, and spread their hands, palms out. All four of them, primary and secondary. The gesture is offered as a gift, he can recognize it, even now—a show of goodwill, a pledge that they come open and unarmed.

But he doesn't miss how wide their eyes have gone.

"Hey," they say, softly. Startled as they look, their voice is so gentle—so _concerned_ —he almost flinches. "Kid. _Hey_. Are you—are you there? Can you understand me?"

He nods, just barely.

They let out a sigh, obviously relieved. More so than he'd have expected, given the last time they'd been this close to each other.

"You did it," he hears them say. "Congratulations."

He freezes. _Congratulations_?

Slither looks at him for a moment, puzzling. Then, their expression softens.

"You've had a rough day, kid. I get it, I do." They lay a hand on his shoulder. And he can't look away from them, somehow, but their touch—it feels so heavy, so _cold_. He's never—he's never felt a touch like that before. "But we've got you, now. You're safe. And, more importantly—well." They crack a small, tentative smile. "Kodanth's waiting for you. Topside."

He's suddenly, acutely aware of his own breathing. Of the soft, sudden un-noise of a fetch, just over his shoulder; just outside his field of view.

"You ready? There's somewhere for you to be."

He knows he should be paying more attention. That Slither is telling him something important. But he can't really pay them any mind, right now. Because when he looks down—

His first thought is: he must be seeing things. He must have died, he thinks faintly, or this must be a dying dream, either way, because—because there's no way this, what he's seeing, is real. Whatever he's seeing—whatever this is, when he looks down—it isn't him. It's wrong. This skin is so soft. And _pink_. It—these hands are so _small_ , and _blunt_ ; he flares his wings, instinctively, even under the cloth and the bindings still wrapped tight around his body, not caring anymore if he's seen—but they feel _gone_. And then—the sound coming out of his mouth—when he starts _screaming_ —

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now featuring An Art by yours truly of a scene that simply wouldn't leave my head, [on my tumblr](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/625353122823487488/slither-must-be-able-to-tell-something-is-wrong)!  
> ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ


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